


The Clasp Undone

by bomberqueen17



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gap Filler, Gen, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bomberqueen17/pseuds/bomberqueen17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this in 2004, and just found it on my hard drive and thought well, what the hell. It was formerly hosted on Henneth Annun but I don't remember my login info there...<br/>Ha ha one of the author's notes was because some anon flamed me in a comment that there was no way Éomer wouldn't have known Theodred was dead before he set out. I actually purchased <i>Unfinished Tales</i> for the purposes of verifying that Tolkien never said one way or another, but it seems pretty clear to me that had Éomer had word of the battle at the Fords of Isen, he'd never have hared off chasing a raiding party in the Eastfold. </p>
<p>God, finding this is like archaeology. It's been literally a decade since I started writing this. I haven't reread it, I'm doing so as I post it, so this is as much a voyage of discovery for me as it is for you. Here's hoping I don't cringe too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lord I Have Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:  
> According to _Unfinished Tales_ , Théodred was killed on the evening of the 25th at the First Battle of the Fords of Isen. Messages sent by Erkenbrand with the news of his death and begging for Éomer to come with reinforcements arrived at Edoras around noon on the 27th. Éomer rode out from Aldburg around midnight on the 27th. I can find no indication anywhere as to whether the news of Theodred's fall and the need for reinforcements at the Fords of Isen reached Éomer before he left. I have chosen to believe his actions indicate that he did not know.  
>  __ **Poetry:**  
>  All verses are taken from the **Marwnad Llywelyn** , by Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Coch, ca. 1280. Translation copyright 1988 by Sarah Lynn Higley. Alterations screwing up the poem so it doesn't jar in a Tolkien-based world rather than Medieval Wales are entirely my own and should not be blamed on anyone else.

_A lord I have lost; I will fear a long while._  
A lord of a king's palace was killed by a hand.  
A lord, loyal, true-- listen to me!  
    How loudly I weep, alas the weeping!  
A generous lord-- the ground (is) around him.  
A bold lord, leonine, controlling the world.  
A lord ardent in his destruction.  
A lord who prospered before leaving Edoras.  
    No Dunlending would dare to have struck him.  
A lord-- golden roof (was) the leader of Eorlings  
    from the lineage that by right rules Rohan.  
My lord, how grieved am I for him!  
My lord, may redemption be with him.  


Meduseld's roof gleamed in the early spring sunlight, but to Éomer it looked more forbidding than friendly. He regarded it with trepidation as Edoras came fully into view ahead, and Éothain noticed his expression.

"The Worm's going to eat you alive," Éothain said, his mouth twisting wryly.

"Yes," Éomer said grimly. "Yes, he is." He sighed, and turned his eyes from the approaching city to regard Éothain. "Listen to me. I want you to keep the eored as uninvolved in this as you can. Don't talk to anyone about what happened-- and do not let them talk about it either. I am going to have enough trouble as it is explaining myself to Théoden."

"Théoden?" Éothain said, raising an eyebrow.

"Wormtongue," Éomer admitted. "I suppose it's too much to hope Théodred might be here. He can talk sense the Worm can't ignore."

"I doubt things in the Westfold will have improved," Éothain said.

"No," Éomer sighed. "I'm on my own." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Éothain," he said in a moment. "I might not come back out. For a while. I want you to send riders to the families of the slain, and see that the men are comfortable. I don't know what's going to happen."

Éothain thought to laugh, but the laugh died before it reached his lips as he read Éomer's mood. This wasn't the apprehension of a boy about to be scolded. This was a man in deep worry about more than his own fate. "Yes, Marshal," Éothain said quietly.

"Éomer son of Éomund, you seem over-eager to meet your father's fate," Gríma Wormtongue hissed as Éomer came up the steps to Meduseld with an uneven but defiant stride. "Your uncle has been worried sick about you, disappearing at a time like this. Your recklessness has cost us more than sleep, Marshal."

"I did not disappear," Éomer said coldly as he came up the last of the steps, weary but unwinded. "I told you there were Orcs threatening our northeast border. I sent you a message telling you where I was going and when I would return. And I have returned."

Éowyn came out of the hall, and he looked over Wormtongue's shoulder in concern as he noted the tears on her cheeks. But Wormtongue's voice pulled his attention back.

"And what of your men, O rash son of Éomund?" Wormtongue asked. "What of them? Have they all returned?"

"I will give my report to Théoden," Éomer said, making to pass him.

"Théoden is wroth with you," Gríma said, a small smile playing about his thin lips. "And he has more reasons than you yet know. I would not be so confident, Marshal."

Éomer turned back to Gríma with an expression of weary annoyance. "My men slew more than two hundred Orcs. I have proof of an alliance between Isengard and Mordor. And I have tidings of the Heir of Isildur. Your turn, Gríma. What have you that I could not guess myself?"

"News," Gríma said, his eyes flickering as he digested the tidbits Éomer had thrown him. "News of the Second Marshal."

"I know things go ill in the Westfold," Éomer said impatiently. "It gave urgency to my ride to the north, and gives urgency now. As soon as I have settled matters with the king I will set the Eastfold to muster and ride to Théodred's aid."

"I'm afraid you'll be too late," Gríma said, a sneaky look of smug pleasure creeping across his white face.

Éomer's eyes slid again to his sister in the doorway, again to the tears on her cheeks. They were not tears of worry at his impending tongue-lashing. They were grief.

"Théodred," he said, something cold anchoring itself between his heart and his spine. "Where is Théodred?"

"Ah," Gríma said, wringing his hands, "none but the Wise can tell us for sure. But there are those who believe--"

Éomer grasped Gríma's collar in both hands. "Where is Théodred?"

Éowyn's hands were around his arm, pulling him back from the counselor, and he turned to her, his eyes wild. "Where is Théodred?"

"Éomer," she whispered, more tears spilling, "Éomer, Théodred is fallen."

He stared at her, the air between his lips ceasing to move.

"They sent for you, but you didn't come," Gríma said. "You didn't come, Éomer."

The flagstones of Meduseld's porch met Éomer's shin greaves with a ringing metallic thunk. He dragged a great breath into his lungs and out again before the air stilled once more. _Théodred_. He raised his gauntleted hands to his head in an instinctive gesture of mourning, and rocked back and forth on his knees as he struggled to breathe.

"I know you think me nothing more than a sniveling worm counseling cowardice," Gríma said, his voice harsh and echoing, "but your cousin needed you, and you weren't here, and now he is dead."

Éomer's spine curved, his head bowing, and he breathed with an effort.

"Get him up," Gríma said to Éowyn. "Get him up. He must come before Théoden and explain himself."

Éomer took another breath. Éowyn was kneeling beside him, her hands cool on his face, pulling at him. "Éomer," she was saying. "Éomer, come. We must go to Uncle." She took him by the arm and pulled. He was too big for her to move, but he felt the pressure and came to her obediently. He struggled to his feet, reeling, unable to feel the ground.

"Éomer has returned, my lord," Gríma called, going before them like a shadow into the hall. Éomer saw his uncle as if in a haze. The old man was sitting on his throne, but his shoulders were bowed, and he had Théodred's helm in his lap, the horsetail crest clotted with bloody mud. Éowyn guided Éomer to Théoden, and he knelt beside the king's throne and looked up into the old man's face. Tears finally came as he put his hands on Théoden's.

"Th-Théodred," Éomer managed, his voice a whisper. Théoden's face was tear-streaked and haggard.

"Théodred is dead because you disobeyed me," Théoden said hoarsely. "You're as reckless as your father was, Éomer. Théodred spent so much time convincing me you were better than that, and what has it gained him? Death, Éomer. That's what. He had faith in you and so he died."

Éomer closed his eyes, his mouth moving mutely in pain. Théodred's name hovered behind his teeth but it would do no good to speak it again. His former defender was now the source of his condemnation.

"As your father killed my sister by his foolishness, so you have killed my son," Théoden said. "His recklessness and pride resurfaces in you, again to the detriment of my family." He jerked his hands away from Éomer's, and Éomer let his hands fall to his sides. His breath was leaving him again. His body ever turned traitor when his will flagged, like a poorly-trained horse.

He heard voices behind him, whispering. One of Gríma's thugs, giving a report of where Éomer's eored had been and who they had met. One of his men was untrue, then; he'd heard Éothain telling them to speak to no-one. He went to file that knowledge away but stopped, knowing it was useless to keep track. He opened his eyes and raised his hands to clear his face. He had no more time to grieve. _Oh Théodred._

"What are we to do with you, Éomer?" Gríma said, coming up behind him. "What are we to do? I am told now that while you run off helter-skelter after phantom Orcs, leaving Edoras undefended and ignoring the summons of your cousin, you are not only letting strangers roam through the Eastmark at will but are also loaning them horses."

"What?" Théoden looked up, and then back down at Éomer. "What is this? Giving horses to strangers?" Éomer let his hands fall and looked up, and the old king's rage was such that Éomer wondered for a dull moment whether the man would strike him. It wouldn't be the first time.

He dragged himself to his feet as the moment passed, inwardly cursing his knees for shaking. He knew with a chilling clarity that all the malice Gríma had focused on Théodred for the last five years was now focused relentlessly on him. He knew he had not Théodred's defenses against it. Théodred had clarity and self-possession, and long experience at dealing with political machinations. Éomer had none of these virtues, and knew his weaknesses were many. He was no match for Gríma on this playing field. Not with Théodred dead.

"My lord," he said, addressing himself to Théoden with as much composure as he could muster. His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. "My lord, after killing the Orcs we rode to hunt, I encountered three wanderers who had been pursing the creatures. They were seeking for two of their companions, taken captive by the Orcs I slew. I spoke to them and satisfied myself as to the urgency and virtue of their mission. And yes, I loaned them two horses. They have promised to come to Edoras and return the horses, and give an account of themselves to you, once they have discovered whether their waylaid companions live."

"You are a fool," Théoden said, in a hiss more becoming of Gríma. "Who were these strangers and what did they give you to make you forget the law of this land?"

Éomer's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. "Give me?" he repeated. Anger wouldn't serve him, but he couldn't control it. "Give me, Uncle? Think you I would sell my men's horses? They gave me nothing but their names and an account of themselves, and that was enough. You will see when they come before you, King. One of them was Isildur's Heir, and he bore the Blade that was Broken."

Gríma laughed unexpectedly, and Théoden turned to look at him, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. "Isildur's Heir," Gríma said. "I suppose he had a very convincing story. Éomer, you are not a man of great wit. There was a reason this law was instituted, requiring you to bring strangers before the king. Your judgment is not your best feature."

"I wasn't talking to you," Éomer said curtly to Gríma. "Théoden King, the man of whom I speak was named Aragorn son of Arathorn, and he bore tidings from Imladris. Do you not remember Boromir and his puzzle? This man was a companion of Boromir, and the Orcs my eored slew had taken the Halflings of the riddle into captivity. They would have delivered them to Saruman. I tell you, there is some league between Isengard and Mordor, and these Orcs proved it. Some wore the Red Eye, and some wore a white hand and an S-rune, and they were going to Isengard. Together."

"Was Boromir there?" Théoden asked, and there was a flicker of his old self in his eyes.

Éomer's breath caught again and he looked down, his grief threatening to choke him. So many good men dead, so suddenly. He blinked a tear from his lashes for Boromir, whose bravery he had known. "No," he managed to say.

"How convenient," Gríma said.

Éomer raised his head and his anger was smoldering in his eyes again. "Boromir is dead," he said sharply. He let that ring into silence, and took another breath. "He was killed some days ago by the very Orcs I slew."

Théoden stared up at him, and Éomer closed his eyes, rubbing his hand over his face to clear it again. "These are heavy tidings," Théoden said at last. "That Denethor and I should both lose our sons."

"Ill news, my lord," Gríma agreed. "But of these strangers-- are you sure that they told the truth? Who were they? I had heard that there were three of them, but you have spoken only of their leader and his outrageous claims."

"Three," Éomer said, recollecting himself. "Yes, three. Aragorn for one, and an Elf of Mirkwood, and a Dwarf, of the Lonely Mountain. They set out together from Imladris some weeks ago together with several others. One of which was Boromir."

"And another of which was Gandalf Greyhame," Gríma said with smug satisfaction. Éomer realized he should have said so himself. Every tidbit Gríma revealed first looked to Théoden's addled mind like something else Éomer was hiding. If Théoden had been able to suspect Théodred capable of harboring plots against him, it was a foregone conclusion that he already fully believed Éomer was.

"Yes," Éomer said. He swallowed, and forced his breath to cooperate. "Gandalf also... is fallen."

Gríma actually exclaimed in astonishment, and then cackled with laughter. "Gandalf fallen!" Gríma composed himself, still chuckling. "Gandalf fallen! Well, that is something. If it is true. But these are ridiculous tales, Éomer. I think you will wait long for these strangers to come to you. Now, after they told you this, did they sprout feathers and sing like birds? Are you sure they were not phantoms conjured by Gandalf himself?"

Éomer regarded him, his jaw tight, and Gríma faded into silence. "Are you finished?" Éomer asked. Gríma looked away. Éomer had never succeeded in staring him down before.

"Éomer," Théoden said, suddenly businesslike. "How many men and horses did you lose?"

"Fifteen men, lord," Éomer said tightly. "And twelve horses. Two riderless horses I loaned to the travelers, and they have promised to return them."

"Fifteen!" Théoden's voice cracked. "Fifteen dead!"

"Yes, lord," Éomer said. "The Orcs were numerous, and there was a second band of them hiding in the forest. All together we counted over two hundred of them slain when the battle was over, and we left none alive."

Théoden shook his head angrily. "You rode away against my orders, like a thief in the night. You got fifteen of your men killed and twelve horses, and gave two more of your horses away to strangers, disobeying my law. And you did not come to the relief of the Fords when we sent for you. What am I supposed to do with you? It was only at Théodred's insistence I made you a Marshal at all, and it seems his own choice doomed him. You are too rash, you are not wise enough, you risk not only your life but the lives of others, and if you have your way you will leave Meduseld a smoking ruin and your men strewn in slaughter all across the country."

Éomer's shoulders remained squared under his battered armor, but his eyes closed. It was too much for Éowyn, and she started forward. "Whether he had been here or not Théodred would still be dead," she said, her voice shaking in anger and grief. "Elfhelm was already on his way with reinforcements. There is nothing Éomer could have done, even if he had received the summons."

Gríma caught at her arm and pushed her backward. "You stay out of this," he hissed. Éomer turned sharply at his hiss, and the hand he laid on Gríma's shoulder was crushingly powerful. He hauled Gríma back away from Éowyn and held him by the front of the shirt with his feet barely touching the ground.

" _You_ ," he growled, "stay out of this." He dropped Gríma in a heap on the ground at the foot of Théoden's dais.

Gríma leapt to his feet, his pale face alive with rage and disbelief and a tiny flicker of triumph. Éomer turned to Théoden and in the open-mouthed shock on the king's face he knew he had reached his own point of no return. He couldn't go back to curtly ignoring Gríma now. He knew he couldn't win but he had to continue now. He could see in Éowyn's face that she knew it too, and behind the hands she clasped to her mouth her face was white. He fixed his eyes on the king and gritted his teeth, girding himself for the hopeless, pointless charge. He couldn't defeat Gríma but he was bound to fall in the attempt.

"You would strike my counselor?" Théoden asked, astonished.

Éomer's shoulders were tense with his anger. "I would," he said. "I would do more. Théoden, this man does not serve you."

"You lie," Gríma hissed, furious. "You lie, Éomer. I see your ambition. Now that your cousin is dead you are next in line for the kingship, are you not? I can see your ambition, whelp. Will you now ease Théoden's passing that you might assume the kingship the sooner?"

"That is enough," Éomer said, his voice clear but shaking with fury. He knew what Gríma was doing but could not help but throw himself into it. "Worm, that is enough. I will stand obediently and listen to you insult my intelligence and judgment, but you will not dare to doubt my loyalty. You will not doubt my loyalty to my lord."

"I do doubt," Gríma hissed. "Are you traitor, Éomund's son? You've had a Marshalship scarce three years and you already disobey the king's orders, and fail in your support of your cousin. Whose side are you on?"

In the end, Éomer was a warrior, not a politician. He was no fool, but in his distress and grief and exhaustion he could not summon the command of logic and rhetoric he needed to defeat Gríma with words. Words had never served him. The tide of blind rage that served him in battle's heaviest press swept over him. "I said enough," he roared in a battlefield voice, grabbing Gríma by the collar again. Éowyn shrieked as Éomer threw Gríma to the floor and drew his sword. The guards swept by her as she stood paralyzed, and they seized Éomer and pulled him away from the unscathed counsellor.

Gríma was wide-eyed and mute, motionless where Éomer had put him, and Théoden rose unsteadily to his feet in horror. Éomer struggled against the guards, but subsided abruptly when one of them hit him a rather hard blow to the back of the head. Éowyn shrieked again at her brother's sudden limp submission and started forward, and one of the guards turned to catch her, to keep her out of the scuffle.

"He would have killed me," Gríma gasped. Éomer's eyes rolled as he tried to raise his head, his body held firm by two guards and his legs unresponsive beneath him. "He would have killed me, lord. And doubtless he'd have killed you next."

Théoden regarded Éomer, whose head lolled. "He is dangerous," Théoden agreed. "And disobedient."

"Yes," Gríma said. "Take his weapons and put him in one of the cells in the guard house until we can decide his fate. He cannot threaten like that."

Éowyn held both her hands tightly over her mouth as she watched them dragging her brother's mostly-limp body from the hall. The guard released her with an apology and she waved him away. Gríma's eyes were suddenly keen on her, and she knew he was wondering what she would do now. Would she support her brother, and become Gríma's next target? She stared back at him for a moment, bringing her hands calmly down to her sides and controlling their trembling. She clamped her lips tightly shut, her teeth locked closed behind them, and walked coolly and with composure to take her place behind Théoden's chair.

 


	2. Faced With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mine: rage against the enemy for violating me._  
>  Mine-- faced with death-- is the need to lament.  
> Mine -- with cause-- is to rail against Fate which has left me without him.   
> Mine is his praising without stint, without cease.  
> Mine is to be ever thinking long on his virtues.  
> Mine -- all my lifetime -- is sorrow for him. 
> 
> _Since mine is the mourning, mine the weeping._

Éomer had regained consciousness before they reached the guard house, but he remained limp and unprotesting as they stripped him of his armor and weapons and put him in the cell. He slid down to his knees as they released him, and didn't flinch when the cell's door swung shut inches from his face. He sat on his knees where they'd let him down, staring blankly through the cell bars, and in a moment let his head fall forward against them with a soft thunk. Théodred was dead. 

When Gríma came to him that night he hadn't moved. His legs had long since fallen into numbness, then pain, then burning, then numbness again, and he hadn't moved. They were cold, and his forehead was cold from the bars. His head ached splittingly. The guard had come in to see if he was conscious once or twice, and he'd blinked at the man, but that was all the motion he'd been able to muster. Théodred was dead. 

Gríma crouched in front of him, just out of arm's reach, as if Éomer would try to reach him now. Gríma had felt how much strength there was in those arms, and he didn't fancy another encounter, even here with the guard just on the other side of the door. "So," he hissed. Éomer blinked but didn't look at him. "It was much easier to dispose of you than I had anticipated." 

Éomer moved his eyes slowly, refocusing them on Gríma's face, and they were profoundly, disturbingly hollow, with nothing behind them. It was unsettling. Gríma had never known there were depths behind the young man's eyes until he saw them missing now. 

"You know your uncle's always thought you worthless," Gríma said. "Like your father. If your sister didn't look so much like your mother did as a girl, you know Théoden never would have taken the two of you in." Éomer blinked slowly. "You already know that your cousin wasn't just your only hope politically, he was also the only one who ever really loved you. Tragic, isn't it, Éomer?" 

There was a flash of something dark behind the blank eyes, and Éomer looked at Gríma with dull hatred. "You had him killed," he said flatly, without passion, "didn't you. Didn't you, Gríma. And now you have me where you want me. What next? Will you kill my sister?" 

"No," Gríma said, and licked his lips. "She's more useful alive. I think she could be subdued by other than death." Éomer closed his eyes, but the rage Gríma had been anticipating didn't come. 

"Éowyn's much smarter than you are," Gríma went on. "She's repudiated you. She will bend where you break." Éomer was motionless, unresponding, and Gríma was a little disappointed. "Oh Éomer," he said. "Théodred was the only one who was true, bonded to you by anything more than blood and convenience. It's so sad that he's dead. And it's a shame you have to die. You could have bent to me and I could have spared you. You could still bend to me and I would spare you." 

Éomer opened his eyes and looked mutely at Gríma's face. His eyes were horrible and blank again, a look Gríma had never seen in the willful young man's face before. Was it despair? Defeat? It was less sweet than Gríma had anticipated, but he persisted, determined to tease some satisfying response out of his most implacable foe. Théodred had been more formidable in terms of the obstacles he had presented to Gríma, but Éomer's splendid wrath was without parallel even in a nation of warriors. 

"You could bend to me," Gríma whispered. "For your life." 

Éomer closed his eyes for a moment, and Gríma had to restrain himself from leaning closer to savor the defeat. "Gríma," Éomer whispered. "Gríma, you had better kill me soon, and quickly when you do. And afterward, you had better make certain I am dead, until there can be no doubt." He opened his eyes and looked keenly at Gríma. "Or you will live to regret it." Suddenly Éomer gave a shout and smacked his own head against the bars. He fell backwards, crying out. "Gríma!" he shouted. "Aah, Gríma!" 

Gríma stood up in horrified confusion, and the guard ran in with his sword drawn. Éomer pushed himself up shakily on his elbow, putting his hand to a new bleeding cut on his forehead. The guard looked wide-eyed between Gríma and Éomer, the lamplight dancing on the naked steel of his sword. Éomer gave a shaky laugh, shriller than his usual voice. 

"Who do they love, Gríma?" he asked, his voice high and tight with pain. The guard took Gríma forcefully by the arm and led him without gentleness out of the guard house. Gríma noticed that the man didn't sheathe his sword until he'd closed the door to the hallway with the cells. 


	3. The Clasp Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With the clasp undone of the gold-handed leader,_  
>  From the death of my lord, man's mind forsakes me.  
> Chill the heart under the breast with terror.  
> Willpower withers like dry wood. 

Éowyn stood grimly before the cell as the night guard unlocked the door. Her brother was motionless on the floor, and blood had seeped from a cut on his forehead to drip across his face and into his hair. As she knelt beside him she could see that his cheeks were streaked with tears. At her request the guard brought a clean rag and a bowl of warm water, and she took Éomer's head into her lap and cleaned the cut. It was high, near the hairline, and most of the damage was hidden in his hair. If she cleaned it well, it would hardly show. 

She had assumed it was from the blow that had subdued him in the hall, but the guard told her Gríma had inflicted it. It struck her as odd that Gríma would feel the need to hit him, but the guard insisted he'd come in himself to see Gríma standing over him and Éomer crying out as the blood started to flow. 

Éomer's face twisted as she worked, and he opened his eyes. He started to say something but stopped and closed his eyes again. Finally he whispered, "I am sorry." 

Éowyn shook her head. "Éomer," she said, "you couldn't have done anything else." 

"No," he said. "No, it was futile. I did precisely what he wanted me to do. And I threw away our last scrap of hope in all this." 

"No," she said. "There is still hope. They haven't killed you." 

"They will," he answered. "Soon. Tomorrow? The day after? Next week? It doesn't matter when they finally kill me, Éowyn. I'm already nothing. You know now that Mordor owns Isengard. Saruman bought Gríma long ago, and Gríma conquered Théoden not long after. With Théodred dead I'm nothing to what little is left of the king. And without either of the two of us, there's only Elfhelm left to command Rohan. No man can stand alone against Mordor like this. Not on two frontiers. Rohan will fall, Éowyn. Rohan is already falling." 

"No," she said insistently, pressing the rag against his cleaned cut as blood began to well out of it again. 

"Yes," he said, his voice steady but grim. "Our field marshals and captains and Riders are brave, and loyal to Rohan, but they cannot stand without a king behind them, with only Elfhelm in front of them. Not against Saruman. Not against the Dark Lord. Rohan will fall, Éowyn. But you have to survive." 

"I will fight in your place," she said. "Elfhelm is not alone. Rohan will not fall." 

"No," he said sharply. "No, Éowyn. Don't fight. You must not fight. Please. Don't suffer Haleth's fate. Do not give your life to defend the doors. Do not stand to be slain." He closed his eyes and tears leaked out from the corners as he grimaced. "Give yourself up, Éowyn. Give yourself up and let them do what they will, so long as you survive." 

"You don't know what you ask of me," she said, her voice low and shaking with horror. 

"Yes I do," he said, and opened his eyes. "Yes, I do, Éowyn. And there is no other way. I can do no more for you. I'm sorry, Éowyn. I don't think I can tell you how sorry I am. I know what I ask of you. But you must. You must survive, through whatever debasement and ignominy. Unless you want our people to disappear entirely. If our people are to survive they must do without pride." 

"It's better to disappear than to live on in shame," she said vehemently. 

Éomer caught her wrist with his hand. "Rohan has fallen before," he said harshly. "Barbarians sat in Meduseld and called one of themselves king, while the people huddled in the caves. But as long as some remained of the House of Eorl there was hope, Éowyn. Even in shame, as long as there were Eorlings, glory could be restored. If you die, Éowyn, our people will be scattered and will become barbarians themselves. If you think that is better for our people you are a selfish fool." 

She jerked her wrist from his grasp. "Théodred was lucky," she hissed. "His pain was brief." 

"You think I don't envy Théodred his death in battle?" Éomer asked, his face twisting in pain. "You think I wouldn't trade places with him in a heartbeat, even if his pain had been bitter? I have made a costly mistake, Éowyn. If you too throw your life away in a futile last stand-- that may seem like heroism, Éowyn, but it will not be. It will doom our people, so that you might enjoy an easy death." 

Éowyn shook her head, defiance writ cold across her face. He stared up at her, his lips thin. "Why did Wormtongue hit you?" she asked in a moment, knowing further argument was pointless. 

To her surprise Éomer laughed coldly. "He didn't," he said. "I hit myself." 

"Why?" she asked, astonished. "Why would you do that?" 

"Know this, Éowyn," he said, and his face bore a look of grim satisfaction. "The people love the House of Eorl and have no loyalty to that worm. The look on Gríma's face when the guard came in ready to kill him for hurting me-- that was worth any pain this may cause me." He shook his head slightly. "That is why you must survive this, Éowyn. Gríma knows the danger to him in our blood. I used mine to illustrate it for him. He knows the loyalty the people bear to Théoden, and to me, and to you. But he won't kill you Éowyn. He can't kill you, even though it leaves his victory incomplete." 

Her hand trembled against his forehead. "But," she said quietly, "I know what he wants of me." 

"Yes," Éomer said, and closed his eyes. "But if it keeps you alive, Éowyn, there is hope. You must let him keep you alive." 

"I cannot," she whispered. "I cannot." 

"Please, Éowyn," Éomer said. "You must." He opened his eyes and stared up at her. "This," he said, and his face tightened with pain. "This is the price of pointless defiance. That I must leave you with only this. Can you forgive me? At the least I could have taken Gríma down with me, if I had done that better." 

"Shh," Éowyn said, stroking his hair gently. 

"You must," he repeated. "You must stay alive. I am so sorry." 

"Not unless there is no other hope. Only then will I do this." He nodded slightly. "I will do what I must," she finished. 

He turned his body to press his face against her. She moved, pulling him tighter to her, and he buried his face against her belly, curling his body around hers as she sat on her knees. It had been a long time since he had so abjectly needed to draw comfort from her warmth and she felt tears come to her eyes finally to think that she would lose him. 

"Éowyn," he said quietly, his voice muffled by her body. "Éowyn, how did Théodred die?" He shivered. 

"Oh Éomer," she said softly, knowing he could feel in her body that she was crying. She put her fingers in his hair, combing gently through the tangles. "The messenger said it was a hard battle but they seemed most eager to attack Théodred, above all else-- they could have caused much more damage to our armies, but they seemed to have been instructed to attack Théodred." 

Éomer sighed. "What can we do, Éowyn?" He shivered. "Such dedicated hate." 

She worked a tangle from his hair gently. "Grimbold cut his way through to try to relieve Théodred, but by the time he got there Théodred had been cut down. He killed the Orc that had struck him, and stayed to defend his body. Elfhelm came and they broke the attack, and then the enemy withdrew. They lifted Théodred up and he lived long enough to say--" She stopped, and put her hand to her mouth to regain her composure. 

"What did he say?" Éomer asked, and she could hear that he was on the verge of weeping. 

"'Let me lie here, to keep the Fords 'til Éomer comes,'" Éowyn answered, choking on a sob. Éomer muffled a sob against her body, a shudder going through his broad frame. She sniffled, her tears dropping onto his shoulder. "They buried him there, and raised a mound. To--" she choked again, "to defend the Ford." 

"Théodred," Éomer groaned. She'd never heard him make a sound of such pain. Not in fever or wound or grief had she ever heard him in such pain. She held him tightly, the tears flowing freely down her face. Even here, she couldn't give voice to her grief, but had to keep silent, her teeth shut tightly behind her closed lips. 

She wouldn't be able to mourn either her cousin or her brother publicly, while the Wormtongue remained in power. They deserved laments, poems, tributes. They deserved to be mourned loudly and fully, to be keened. Their loss was not something to endure in silence, and to be forced to burned her. 

But here at least there was no one to see her tears, to cast doubt on her loyalty to this dubious regime. She could cry later, but she couldn't sob or wail or mourn. Not even to contemplate the horror of the task that lay before her. Silence had never been her strength, but she was learning it. 

After a long time Éomer composed himself and sat up, pushing away from her with the crackle of joints long-abused and poorly rested. He leaned his back against the wall and rubbed his face with his hands. His face was puffy, his eyes swollen, and the front of her overdress was cold with his sudden absence, and damp with his tears. He looked at her and put out his right hand to take one of hers. "Éowyn," he whispered, and had no more words. She held his hand between both of hers and they sat in silence until the guard came in. 

"It's nearly sunrise," the guard said apologetically. "You told me to come get you then." 

"Yes," she said. She stood up, reluctantly letting go of Éomer's hand. He looked down at the floor and didn't watch her go. 

"Goodbye, sister," he said. 

She picked up the bowl and the rag and the lantern, and looked back over her shoulder at him as the guard locked the door again. He wasn't looking at her, and had drawn his legs up and clasped his arms around them. He had never looked so small to her. 

"Goodbye," she whispered. The door closed behind her and it was dark.


	4. Perfect Was The Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From a heavy swordstroke, downfall upon him._  
>  From long swordblades his suppression.  
> From a wound upon my ruler is my distress,  
> From hearing of the fatigue of the lord of the Mark.  
> Perfect the lad who was killed by the enemy's hand.  
> Perfect was the honor of his ancestors upon him.  
> Candle of Kings, strong lion of Eorl,  
> Throne of Honour; there was need of him.  
> 

The light when the door opened again was blinding, and Éomer thought the pain in his head would split him in two. He grimaced, squinting against the light, but refused to turn his face away. He stood up slowly, determined not to shrink from his fate. 

"Éomer." It was Háma. The light still blinded him, but he recognized the doorwarden's voice. 

"Háma," he said, squinting. Keys jingled as Háma opened the cell door. Éomer steeled himself, blinking as his eyes adjusted painfully. They'd surely put shackles on him now. He'd never been shackled in his life, and the prospect of it sickened him. But he was determined that he would not cringe or stumble. He would meet his death as a Marshal, even if it were far from the death in battle he'd expected. 

Háma stood a moment, gazing at him, and as Éomer's eyes grew accustomed to the bright light he could make out the doorwarden's broad grin. Éomer stared, unsettled. He had accounted Háma a friend. 

"I've been sent to bring you to King Théoden," Háma said, and the joy in his voice was unmistakeable as he led Éomer by the elbow out into the dazzling light of the passageway. 

"I had expected as much," Éomer said warily, regarding him. "You seem excited to see me condemned." 

"Gandalf is here," Háma said. "Gandalf, and Aragorn, and the elf and dwarf as you said." 

"Gandalf," Éomer said with some surprise. "They told me he was dead." 

Háma shrugged. "I guess it is not so easy to kill a wizard. He's white now, not grey." 

"What news does he bring?" Éomer asked, wondering whether Wormtongue would be so brazen before Gandalf. 

"More than news," Háma said. "Much more. Théoden is freed from Wormtongue. And so you are freed from your imprisonment." 

"Freed," Éomer said, his voice flat with doubt. This was more than he had expected, even from Gandalf. He squinted at Háma again as they moved into the guardhouse's main entryway, flooded with bright sunlight. "Freed, as in they're not going to kill me now?" 

"Yes," Háma said. "You're a free man, Marshal. They're waiting for you, to take counsel about the defense of Rohan." 

Éomer laughed, incredulous. "Free? The defense of Rohan? Háma, if you were anyone else I would think you the cruelest of liars. Even you I don't believe entirely." 

Háma grinned at him, happier and more excited than Éomer had ever seen. Even his eyes sparkled with delight. "Free," he repeated. "You know I don't lie." 

"It sounds like a tall tale," he said, shaking his head. "You know Wormtongue would have had me killed." 

"I do know," Háma said, but his grin didn't dim. "But you were good enough to help a powerful person in his time of need, and he has more than returned the favor. Come! There are battles to plan." 

Éomer looked around the room. "In that case," he said, "I'll need my sword." He felt a little light-headed, though whether that were giddiness at his unexpected reprieve, or the fact that he hadn't eaten in two days, he wasn't sure. "Where is it?" 

"I gave it into the keeping of the guards," Háma said, moving across the guard house and retrieving Guthwine from a trunk where it had been dropped, scabbardless. "Here it is, Marshal." 

Éomer grinned as Háma presented it to him. "Gúthwinë," he said. "I hadn't thought to see you again." He took the sword and held it, wiping fingerprints from it with the hem of his tunic. The guards had been playing with it. He'd heard them discussing its merits. 

"Come, lord," Háma said. "They are waiting." 

Éomer squared his shoulders with a breath. If only all kindnesses to strangers were so richly repaid.


End file.
